by Rob Edmunds
The second prompting came with the curse that managed to reach them from the valley. The boy’s enraged shriek contradicted the composure of his movements, but, importantly, showed Masinissa conclusively where his loyalties lay.
“Have that, Syphax dog!” the boy yelled in a momentary pause before reaching into his pouch and loading another bullet into its cradle. Whether that meant he was a fellow Massyli was moot at that point, but it certainly was clear that they had a shared enemy in the Masaesylian king. His second release, which exploded in the face of the other rider, was just as spectacular and appeared to hit the second man right between the eyes. There was a thud and a red gush, and then a solitary horse lost its urgency and occupant.
“That’s it; let’s go,” Masinissa instructed Massiva, who looked at him puzzled and uncertain, as if the directive was unclear or absurd.
“Are you kidding? Why risk our necks for a lone shepherd?
The reply struck Masinissa as dismissive and cowardly, and he felt the bile of contempt rise towards his own kinsman, which he had never felt before. He grabbed Massiva by the hair roughly, as if it was the mane of a horse and barked, “We’re going if I have to drag you behind me. If that were you down there, would you expect me to go, ‘Feh, it’s not worth the risk,’ and slink off back towards the coast?”
“Well, no, of course not, but it’s a different situation.”
“Look, there are seven left. That’s two each, more or less, even if we have to kill them all. How do those figures look in terms of your personal risk assessment? Your time is ordained, son, and it’s not now. Your pouch of luck is still pretty full. Move, unless you want me to slice your nuts off here and now, and send you to the priesthood.”
Masinissa didn’t wait for an answer and slapped his javelin forcefully against Lily’s rump, and men and beasts charged down the slope towards an uncertain opposition. The resolution of their targets may well have been waning anyway, as – in the moments Masinissa had taken to upbraid his nephew – the slinger had performed the same precise throw and despatched another charging rider just as expertly. The remaining six started yelling at each other as if they needed the playwright of the scene to revise the picture that was unfolding, to switch the locations of the dying. Their cries rose an octave when they spotted the approaching riders.
It was strange to describe it as such, but the solitary slinger and two riders were performing a flanking manoeuvre on the hapless bandits. The three choices before them – attack one or the other, or flee – seemed to confuse them, and the hesitation was fatal. Neither Masinissa nor Massiva raised their javelin until they were clearly in range, so their enemies were unsure whether they were threats. At the point when their raised arms confirmed the danger, the two javelins were heading at two still-beating hearts. The remaining beats of those hearts could, however, by then be counted on the fingers of the throwers.
The slinger had also noted the changing conditions in the field, but, clearly, it did not give him cause to pause his own defence and reconsider the urgency of his self-preservation. As the two javelins did their work, another of his bullets hit another skull, although in the temple of an uncertain enemy this time, rather than between the eyes.
In an instant, the brigands remaining numbers had dropped from seven to four, and those were scattered and in a state of panic. Their easy pickings had turned into a deadly calamity, and, at almost even odds, their courage was evaporating visibly. It was not unexpected of bandits. They only preyed on the weakest targets with guaranteed success. They hadn’t counted on the fates and a deadly boy intervening. None of the men managed to muster any kind of charge and were at a massive disadvantage from the galloping Numidian riders.
Massiva’s resolve had been buoyed by his accurate javelin, and he peeled off from Masinissa, seeking his transfixed opponent. Masinissa switched his focus similarly, loosened his falcata from its scabbard, took it in his left hand and attacked the weak flank of the nearest bandit.
As Masinissa was aiming for the throat, his adversary had the presence of mind to duck. In doing so, he managed only to meet a slower and more agonising demise, as Masinissa’s blade found the bridge of his nose and eye sockets rather than his neck. The scream that an accurate strike would have stifled erupted from his larynx. Napla barely checked her stride as Masinissa urged her into a shallow turn and bore down on the next rider, who had started to turn and flee. His horse was clearly no match for Napla; it was a thickset quasi-donkey that bounced comically at a full trot in a way that juxtaposed pathetically with Napla’s punchy charge. Masinissa was on his prey as quickly as a fox on a hen. With his peripheral vision, he could see that Massiva had killed another bandit and was bearing down upon the last rider, who had turned for the hills on his own woefully underpowered ass, and the slinger was reloading with the last rider in his sights too. One way or another, that final opponent was doomed. That realisation allowed Masinissa to reconsider his method of dealing with his own pursuit.
In reality, his enemy, who was showing his back on a slow pony, stood no chance, but he held a javelin that he might prove accurate with over a short distance. He may have possessed a weaker side, but Masinissa could not speculate whether this was the case. As Napla drew closer, he freed himself a little by grabbing her mane tighter and jumping onto her back, so that one foot was on her withers and the other close to her croup. He was ready to parry and dive. When the rider turned and saw the position Masinissa had taken, he realised his only chance was an immediate and accurate throw. A wiser foe would have thrown at the horse, but the man threw at Masinissa. Given the angle of his body, it was a fair effort, hard and at the chest.
Nevertheless, Masinissa anticipated it as if he were catching a slowly tossed ball, and deflected its trajectory harmlessly with his falcata. The man was now left with only his limbs to fend off his enemy. These proved useless, as Masinissa leapt acrobatically over them. His target was the man’s head, and he wrapped both hands around it in mid-air, dragging the man off the horse as his momentum carried him beyond it. He twisted in the air, yanking the man over and under him, and he landed, cushioned by his enemy’s body, on the dry earth. It was a jolt that sucked the air out of him a little, but he had no need to ready himself for a struggle on the ground, as the man’s neck was broken and he was dead before he had absorbed the impact of the fall.
As Masinissa rose, he had enough time to witness the demise of the last rider. His own duel had lasted only seconds, and Massiva still had not reached the remaining brigand. He didn’t need to as the slinger had a final act of revenge ready to be released. This time, the boy did not fire the bullet from the top of his swing, rather he executed a much harder underhand throw. He took a step forwards, and whipped shoulder, elbow and wrist in concert. The rider looked clear of the weapon’s normal range, but the boy’s aim was as true as before, and, from a very acute angle, he crushed his stone into the back of the man’s head. For a second, Masinissa’s mouth stood agape. This type of throw was very common in warfare and in training, but accuracy was much less when compared with an overhand throw, and, more often than not, they were intended as wild sprays into an opposing army. This boy had hit the skull of a moving target at about a hundred yards. Not even the most skilful slingers he had encountered could have performed such a deadly accurate throw.
Massiva rode to the fallen figure and confirmed the kill to the others by making a slicing gesture to his throat. The skirmish was done. Incongruously then, the boy gave Masinissa a nonchalant wave with his free hand, and then balled his fist and drew his elbow into his torso in a gesture of triumph. In response, Masinissa performed the same action; the small muscular contraction felt good, and punctuated the moment between mortal danger and fresh curiosity.
Ari’s doll
Masinissa took in the stillness as he jogged over to where Napla had pulled up and begun to graze on some brown tufts of grass. His eye was drawn to a vulture above him, whi
ch seemed keen to become flirtatious with the corpses. There was something serene and beautiful about the bird in the air. Its spread wings were elegant, with a natural grace permeating every quivering feather. He knew that this show was reserved for the sky only. The creature would show a much more grotesque aspect when it landed. Its placid spirals would turn into ugly, avaricious hops as it tore into the meat these dead men had become. The sky would soon be full off these duplicitous avians, and they would be falling on their free lunches without much ceremony if the bodies were left exposed. Masinissa had neither the time nor the interest in sparing these men from entering the food chain of the desert. He was sure the boy would wish to bury his own dead, and he would help him, but the others could be consumed. By the next day, the marrow of their bones would be being gnawed over a range of several miles as the wild things took advantage of their unexpected human meal.
Looking at the bundles of goods that littered the ground, he could see why these bandits had launched their fatal assault. There was fine cloth, spices, dyes and some jewellery. Masinissa doubted whether all of it had been acquired legitimately. Either way, as far as he was concerned, it had become his reward. He wasn’t covetous enough to take it all, but he and Massiva would have their cut, particularly of the precious stones and metals, which they both knew could brighten the moods of the ladies of Carthage, Cirta and Russicada.
Napla seemed unfazed when he reached her, which was a good sign, and he mounted her and spun her back towards the boy, who appeared to be waiting patiently for him. The sling remained in his grasp, but it could have been a length of worry beads for all the aggressive intent the boy now evinced. Masinissa wondered whether the term “boy” ought to be discarded when describing or thinking of him. That vestigial term of youth did not sit well on someone who had just killed several people. Whether he had just grown up fast or had experience of dealing out death previously didn’t really matter. He was a man now, with the memories and sins to prove it.
Masinissa could see that Massiva was as reluctant and unsure of himself at the end of the battle as he had been at the beginning, and, although he was much closer to the slinger, he stood hesitantly at a distance from the boy, as if they had not yet forged any kind of bond by fighting for each other’s lives. Maybe the “boy” designation suited Massiva much better. There were no protocols on a battlefield or need to stand on ceremony. Embrace your life and salvation, or at least greet your comrade and rejoice in your mutual survival. He certainly intended to express a little of that relief. However, whilst the euphoria of deliverance still coursed through his veins, his mind still posed questions.
As Masinissa approached the young man, his curiosity grew even further. The blur of motion that he’d been – leather, projectile, swirling rope and cloth – presented an entirely different aspect when still and attentive. He was moderately slight and very poised, balanced as if on his toes, but with a gait that appeared to rock sideways rather than forwards. It looked as if he was ready to anticipate any movement and evade it. There was something feline about it, but also something a little pugilistic. Whilst not in the least threatening, Masinissa had the sense that the boy could hit him first should it ever come to that. Whether his power would be commensurate with Masinissa’s was highly doubtful, but his reflexes certainly appeared to be sharper. His shoulders had the merest hint of sway and his attention was fixed on one object; in this case, that object was Masinissa.
His expression offered a further contrast. There was something guileless in the easy smile he offered Masinissa, which spread to his eyes but still managed somehow to leave traces of a flintier coldness in them. Maybe it was a little harsh to judge the boy’s expression. He had just killed a few people, and who knows how close his relationships had been with the corpses littering the tracks of the decimated caravan.
There was an incongruous neatness to him too, adding a shade of femininity or perhaps more like a formality to a young man who must be living the harshest possible life. He expected a more chaotically attired figure, for sure. His clothing was more fitting than the usual Bedouin garb, as if he insisted on wearing robes that he’d just outgrown. His scarf, though it billowed like a flag, evidently had been used wisely, as his skin retained a smoothness that would usually long have been surrendered to the abrasions of the sun, even for youths of his age. The most striking of his features was a small, circular mole or birthmark located right in the middle of his forehead, a little crown to his procerus muscle. He had seen some women of Eastern origin decorate themselves with cosmetic markers at almost that exact point on the face, and Masinissa was unsure if such marks were intended to be alluring, a sign of spiritual devotion or both.
As with any distinctive feature, be it appealing or grotesque, it was best not to stare or linger on it, and Masinissa instead offered his hand and arm as a greeting, and reciprocated the smile, just as naturally. As the two gripped palms, Masinissa noticed something he hadn’t seen before that made him pause. Tucked into his new associate’s belt was a painted wooden doll. Where you might expect to see a sword or a blade of some kind ordinarily, the youth had chosen to hold on to something of his childhood. Masinissa had witnessed similar behaviour before, usually in captured young slaves, who had been pressed into military service before their innocence had faded properly from them and who retained an obsessive compulsion for childhood remnants. It was a sign of trauma, but one that held more pathos than others. Clinging to the hope of an obliterated childhood or trying to deny the adult realities couldn’t help but engender a little pity. You couldn’t help but feel a little complicit too in not having shielded these young boys. Once it’s gone, childhood is unredeemable. Everyone knows that.
It would seem that, despite the evidence of his own eyes, Masinissa had underestimated this very adept killer before him. He had assumed that his actions may have been spontaneous, fortuitous reactions, but that was clearly a naive assessment. It takes a little bit more than an instinct to survive, and natural gifts of accuracy and athleticism to accomplish what he had just witnessed. There must be a bit of history, and sometimes, as he knew from wiser heads, that history needs to be forgotten or submerged. He wasn’t going to ask this boy what he had seen or done, or, especially, what might have been done to him. He would stick to the basics and the future. The past was the carved object, with the ragged hair and painted smile, that hung at the young man’s waist, and he didn’t want to go there.
Where was he to begin then? The boy seemed bothered by the delay, the scrutiny or perhaps both. His smile became a little more wan, and, in his impatience, he flexed shoulders and hips into something that would have turned into a swagger if he broke into stride.
A swagger can be good, Masinissa thought, with an eye to the qualities that would be appealing in a potential recruit. Any type of command needs an air of confidence, and that has to be visible in your body and gestures, and be explicit for all to see, especially to those who are about to ride into a hail of javelins behind you.
Masinissa started his introduction light-heartedly, “You’re some shot.”
Nothing breaks the ice better than a compliment; the boy’s beam returned, and his restored assurance reached his face as he cocked out his chin, twisted his head a little, and gave a slow, deliberate and intentionally comic nod, which he repeated as he saw Masinissa’s ease improve by the gesture. “I sure am!” he replied with an accentuated rural twang. “You fling a javelin pretty good yourself, and, as for breaking a man’s neck in mid-air, I ain’t seen that done before.”
“Well, I don’t do it competitively or anything. Maybe I should,” Masinissa replied, in the unexpectedly jovial spirit in which the conversation had begun. “I’m not sure if it’s a career path with much longevity, mind.”
“Too right!” came the rapid assent. “I’m Ari.” He paused and became more sober. “And I owe you my life. There were too many of them, and they would have killed me if you hadn’t intervened. I can
’t make sense of things now, but I know I owe you and I will serve you as best I can. I can see you are noble in your appearance as well as your actions, and I will pay my debt to you in the ways I am able.”
“You certainly seem able enough to me, and I will hold you to your vow. A blood debt ought to be the surest loyalty anyone could have. This world is always shifting like the sands, but nothing stakes something more firmly into the ground than gratitude.”
“I’ve got a load of that, sir.”
“Forget the ‘sir’; that’s a word for people who don’t know me. We have… a bond.” The comment, when spoken, surprised Masinissa because he was not usually so quick to jettison formalities, particularly with subordinates, but he was instinctively at his ease with this impressive survivor of an ambushed caravanserai, and he had a quick sense that he could rely upon him. Trust those first impressions! he thought to himself. “Next time, we’ll find danger together, if it doesn’t find us. I need a bodyguard. With a ranged weapon, you couldn’t be better suited. Bulk up a bit and practise with the knife. If you can cook a little too, that would be good. I’m pretty hopeless. I’ve relied on taverns too much. My manners! I’m Masinissa, and the slouching guy over there is Massiva.”